It's soccer season again. In honor of the occasion, a sideline haiku composed by my husband, long-suffering veteran of many practices:
Hot grassy moistness.
An itchy sea of soccer.
Practice never ends.
Thursday, September 10, 2015
Sunday, June 14, 2015
Highlight Reel 2014
So...Clearly I did not live up to my blog responsibilities over the past year. I'll play the well-worn pregnancy, colicky newborn, and never-ending home renovation cards and hope to be forgiven. To make up for lost time, I'm sharing our Best Photos of 2014 here today. Coming soon... "before and after" photos of the parts of the house we HAVE actually finished.
January
February
March
April
May
Summer
September
October
November
December
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
It's All in the Point of View
Conversation with my newly four year old this evening about dizziness:
(While spinning around in circles in the kitchen): "Mommy, what's dizzy?"
"It's when you turn around and around and then stop, and you still feel like you're spinning".
(Pause to stop and observe): "Mommy, I'm not spinning but the house is. I think the house is dizzy".
(While spinning around in circles in the kitchen): "Mommy, what's dizzy?"
"It's when you turn around and around and then stop, and you still feel like you're spinning".
(Pause to stop and observe): "Mommy, I'm not spinning but the house is. I think the house is dizzy".
Friday, March 7, 2014
Love/Hate
I have a love/hate relationship with our television. OK, it's mostly hate. In the early years, I tried to persuade my husband to rid our house of television altogether. He grew up with all-you-can-eat cartoons on Saturday mornings and turned out OK, so he didn't see the rationale. In fact, he thought I was a crunchy granola-coated nut. We compromised on "basic" cable -- the kind where you don't get any of the good stations but don't have to use bunny ears -- and a demilitarized zone of television has existed in uneasy truce in our home ever since.
My kids' TV universe (aside from SEC football, which doesn't really count) is pretty much limited to PBS Kids. This isn't so much a sign of my moral superiority as a selfish desire to avoid the whining associated with commercials and my general snooty attitude that TV rots your brain. My school age kids have moved on to thirty year old BBC versions of the Chronicles of Narnia, in which the talking animals appear to be wearing bathroom rugs with zippers up the back, and the occasional Pixar movie if it's not "too scary". Things that are Too Scary include the two foot tall bad guy in The Incredibles. Overexposure to graphic violence is not a big problem at our house.
We were existing quite well like this until Bill Cosby entered our lives. The Cosby Show was a family tradition for me in the 1980s. Once a week on Thursday 7pm Central Standard Time, my family gathered around the TV and watched the Huxtables along with whatever the ad agencies chose to sell us that week. The Cosby Show occupies space in my brain near hot cocoa, warm blankets and 7Up when your stomach is upset. I picked up the first couple of seasons on DVD as an impulse buy, thinking my husband would like to watch them with me (he didn't, his cocoa-and-7Up neurons apparently being wired differently). One evening when the mental energy to parent all the way through til bedtime was lacking, I randomly offered the kiddos "sofa snuggle time" to watch an episode with me. Turns out, they think it's hysterical. Something about that family (maybe just the insane number of children) clicks for them. Even the two year old talks about the "Co-bee Sow", although his actual attention wanders after five minutes.
I have no idea what my parents watched on TV as kids, other than Neil Armstrong walking on the moon. I know there WAS television in the '50s and '60s, but without the preservative effect of DVDs and steaming video, it was long gone by the time I reached viewing age. As a member of the network TV-saturated generation X, sharing my favorite programs from childhood with my children is a way of anchoring them. It's like a time machine that lets them get a glimpse, in a way that children of previous generations never could, of the cultural influences that shaped their mom and dad into the strange adult beings they are today. I know that one day they'll venture out into the larger world of kids who have X Boxes and REAL cable and smartphones, and those friends will say "you watched what?" and the secret will be out that our family entertainment isn't cool. But until then, we'll keep soaking in the 80s, commercial-free.
My kids' TV universe (aside from SEC football, which doesn't really count) is pretty much limited to PBS Kids. This isn't so much a sign of my moral superiority as a selfish desire to avoid the whining associated with commercials and my general snooty attitude that TV rots your brain. My school age kids have moved on to thirty year old BBC versions of the Chronicles of Narnia, in which the talking animals appear to be wearing bathroom rugs with zippers up the back, and the occasional Pixar movie if it's not "too scary". Things that are Too Scary include the two foot tall bad guy in The Incredibles. Overexposure to graphic violence is not a big problem at our house.
We were existing quite well like this until Bill Cosby entered our lives. The Cosby Show was a family tradition for me in the 1980s. Once a week on Thursday 7pm Central Standard Time, my family gathered around the TV and watched the Huxtables along with whatever the ad agencies chose to sell us that week. The Cosby Show occupies space in my brain near hot cocoa, warm blankets and 7Up when your stomach is upset. I picked up the first couple of seasons on DVD as an impulse buy, thinking my husband would like to watch them with me (he didn't, his cocoa-and-7Up neurons apparently being wired differently). One evening when the mental energy to parent all the way through til bedtime was lacking, I randomly offered the kiddos "sofa snuggle time" to watch an episode with me. Turns out, they think it's hysterical. Something about that family (maybe just the insane number of children) clicks for them. Even the two year old talks about the "Co-bee Sow", although his actual attention wanders after five minutes.
I have no idea what my parents watched on TV as kids, other than Neil Armstrong walking on the moon. I know there WAS television in the '50s and '60s, but without the preservative effect of DVDs and steaming video, it was long gone by the time I reached viewing age. As a member of the network TV-saturated generation X, sharing my favorite programs from childhood with my children is a way of anchoring them. It's like a time machine that lets them get a glimpse, in a way that children of previous generations never could, of the cultural influences that shaped their mom and dad into the strange adult beings they are today. I know that one day they'll venture out into the larger world of kids who have X Boxes and REAL cable and smartphones, and those friends will say "you watched what?" and the secret will be out that our family entertainment isn't cool. But until then, we'll keep soaking in the 80s, commercial-free.
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
Ups and Downs
Renovating a house is the emotional equivalent of a roller coaster: lots of ups and downs, and you spend a lot of the time with a wierd feeling in the pit of your stomach. Since I'll be sharing a lot of our "up" moments as we hit our renovation milestones, and in the interest of full disclosure, here is a little story about the perils of late-night home renovation...
In early June I became a bit rabid on the subject of FINISHING THE FLOORS. Not re-finishing, but finishing re-finishing, if you see what I mean. As in, COMPLETING the floors. Freshly refinished hardwoods really need a couple of weeks to cure before you place anything on them, meaning we couldn't move in until they were cured. A marathon of sanding, coating, buffing and re-coating commenced. Since my husband carried the bulk of the sanding burden, I generously supervised the polyurethane application. OK, so that's a little revisionist history. The truth is that I am a snobby polyurethane perfectionist and he was terrified to pick up an applicator for fear of making a mistake that would harden into permanent marital history on our floor.
I had a pretty high opinion of my poly-applying skills by the time we reached the third and final coat, and as the old saying goes...pride goeth before an unfortunate incident involving highly flammable compounds. Due to the scheduling conflicts of work and four kiddos (aka Real Life), floor refinishing sessions took place around midnight. I was a little high on adrenaline and VOCs as I inched toward the living room exit around 1am. The unfortunate incident occurred with approximately 12 square feet of floor left to go in my 1500 square foot project. To backtrack a bit, my charming 1930s living room has an equally charming lack of overhead lighting. This means that it is lit entirely by lamps, which is only a minor inconvenience unless one is applying something wet and sticky to the floor, requiring one to work entirely by the light of a naked bulb screwed into a desk lamp plugged into a wall outlet and perched precariously (yes, precariously, hint hint) on the end of the mantelpiece. I am not actually sure which elbow, foot, pole or other appendage nudged the cord, but the end result was a broken light bulb. On the floor. Covered with something the approximate consistency of honey. At 1am. In the dark. I was fortunately distracted from the complex problem of how to clean up broken glass from wet polyurethane by an additional exciting plot twist. You may have forgotten (I did) that polyurethane is in fact a petroleum product. It turns out that if one drops something very hot, say for instance a light bulb filament, onto a liquid petroleum product, say for instance polyurethane, it ignites. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I set my floor on fire. Just a little bit.
Smothered the flames. Wiped up most of the glass with mineral spirits (at least what I could find of it in the dark). Went home to bed, an humbler renovator.
In early June I became a bit rabid on the subject of FINISHING THE FLOORS. Not re-finishing, but finishing re-finishing, if you see what I mean. As in, COMPLETING the floors. Freshly refinished hardwoods really need a couple of weeks to cure before you place anything on them, meaning we couldn't move in until they were cured. A marathon of sanding, coating, buffing and re-coating commenced. Since my husband carried the bulk of the sanding burden, I generously supervised the polyurethane application. OK, so that's a little revisionist history. The truth is that I am a snobby polyurethane perfectionist and he was terrified to pick up an applicator for fear of making a mistake that would harden into permanent marital history on our floor.
I had a pretty high opinion of my poly-applying skills by the time we reached the third and final coat, and as the old saying goes...pride goeth before an unfortunate incident involving highly flammable compounds. Due to the scheduling conflicts of work and four kiddos (aka Real Life), floor refinishing sessions took place around midnight. I was a little high on adrenaline and VOCs as I inched toward the living room exit around 1am. The unfortunate incident occurred with approximately 12 square feet of floor left to go in my 1500 square foot project. To backtrack a bit, my charming 1930s living room has an equally charming lack of overhead lighting. This means that it is lit entirely by lamps, which is only a minor inconvenience unless one is applying something wet and sticky to the floor, requiring one to work entirely by the light of a naked bulb screwed into a desk lamp plugged into a wall outlet and perched precariously (yes, precariously, hint hint) on the end of the mantelpiece. I am not actually sure which elbow, foot, pole or other appendage nudged the cord, but the end result was a broken light bulb. On the floor. Covered with something the approximate consistency of honey. At 1am. In the dark. I was fortunately distracted from the complex problem of how to clean up broken glass from wet polyurethane by an additional exciting plot twist. You may have forgotten (I did) that polyurethane is in fact a petroleum product. It turns out that if one drops something very hot, say for instance a light bulb filament, onto a liquid petroleum product, say for instance polyurethane, it ignites. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I set my floor on fire. Just a little bit.
Smothered the flames. Wiped up most of the glass with mineral spirits (at least what I could find of it in the dark). Went home to bed, an humbler renovator.
Saturday, June 29, 2013
New House Update: Weeks 3-4
Ok, so I admit I'm a little behind in posting renovation project updates. But putting down polyurethane til midnight everynight doesn't give a person the overwhleming urge to blog (not to mention the lightheadedness...but more about that later). Clearly we're way past weeks 3-4 into the project now, but I'll try to keep things chronological. When last we met, most of the demolition was complete, and the non-demolished half of the downstairs re-painted. Stuff that happened in the latter half of May:
1. Our master bath tub was delivered and we moved it into the house. This sounds like a small thing, but since the tub is made of cast iron and weighs 500 lbs empty, it was really quite a BIG thing. Our friend Adrian whipped up a furniture dolly in his garage and our strong-backed friends Brad and Carla helped with the actual lifting. Lucky us! Adrian will get his furniture dolly back soon...right after we figure out how to get the 500 lb tub off of it.
2. We learned that our 80 year old hardwood floors were coated not with polyurethane but with shellac.
3. We learned that when you attempt to screen and recoat shellac with a modern buffer, it melts. Sigh.
4. We took a deep breath and put in some very, very long days sanding our downstairs hardwoods back to bare wood, rather than the quickie screen and recoat we had initially planned. Although we both admit they look LOVELY afterward, and in retrospect are glad we did it.
5. We got a visit from Grandpa and Grandma Sonya and the boys got a new tire swing. I wish I had photos to share of the drama involved in hanging, un-hanging and re-hanging the tire swing, but I was too busy freaking out that someone was going to fall from the long, rickety extension ladder and/or knock someone else unconscious with the 10 foot long McGyver-like homemade pole/hook tool.
6. I put our kitchen barstools together. Given that my kitchen currently has no bar...or cabinets, walls or in fact a real floor as of the end of June, this was clearly a bit on the optimistic side. But a girl can dream.
Enjoy the slideshow...more updates and a few harrowing tales coming up soon.
1. Our master bath tub was delivered and we moved it into the house. This sounds like a small thing, but since the tub is made of cast iron and weighs 500 lbs empty, it was really quite a BIG thing. Our friend Adrian whipped up a furniture dolly in his garage and our strong-backed friends Brad and Carla helped with the actual lifting. Lucky us! Adrian will get his furniture dolly back soon...right after we figure out how to get the 500 lb tub off of it.
2. We learned that our 80 year old hardwood floors were coated not with polyurethane but with shellac.
3. We learned that when you attempt to screen and recoat shellac with a modern buffer, it melts. Sigh.
4. We took a deep breath and put in some very, very long days sanding our downstairs hardwoods back to bare wood, rather than the quickie screen and recoat we had initially planned. Although we both admit they look LOVELY afterward, and in retrospect are glad we did it.
5. We got a visit from Grandpa and Grandma Sonya and the boys got a new tire swing. I wish I had photos to share of the drama involved in hanging, un-hanging and re-hanging the tire swing, but I was too busy freaking out that someone was going to fall from the long, rickety extension ladder and/or knock someone else unconscious with the 10 foot long McGyver-like homemade pole/hook tool.
6. I put our kitchen barstools together. Given that my kitchen currently has no bar...or cabinets, walls or in fact a real floor as of the end of June, this was clearly a bit on the optimistic side. But a girl can dream.
Enjoy the slideshow...more updates and a few harrowing tales coming up soon.
Thursday, June 6, 2013
Mark's New Website
Mark has launched a new website for his law practice. Looks pretty cool, if we do say so ourselves! Check it out at www.appealnc.com
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Lazy Children Beware
My older kiddos are both now fluent readers, which provides a whole new perspective on the grown-up world. Overheard from the back seat of my car this weekend:
S, age 6: "Do you think that's REAL?"
B, age 9: ".....no. Nobody would do that."
I looked out the window to see what they were so impressed by, and saw the following yard sign:
"FREE LAZY BOY".
S, age 6: "Do you think that's REAL?"
B, age 9: ".....no. Nobody would do that."
I looked out the window to see what they were so impressed by, and saw the following yard sign:
"FREE LAZY BOY".
Monday, May 20, 2013
Demolition Derby
For those who follow us more in blog world than in the actual world, you may not yet be aware that we have given in to a longstanding addiction and bought a new, old, house. A whole house renovation is underway, one section at a time. Eventually we hope to make something about the house BETTER, but step one is demolition. Here's a slideshow of our accomplishments in the first couple of weeks of ownership:
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
Wild Things
What have we been doing around here for the past 3 months?
Maybe we did a few other things in that time...Christmas, welcoming in 2013, buying a house (more on that coming soon)...but none more important than celebrating our little guy's first year.
A few belated pictures of the big day, complete with first chocolate cake. The orange sign may not be legible in the photo, but it was a handmade gift for P by his brothers. I swear Mom was not involved. It reads:
THIS IS THE BIRTHDAY BOY. HE IS NOT ANY OF THE WILD THINGS.
Give him another year, boys. Give him another year.
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Techno Tradition
Along with many other adventures, marriage offers a new perspective on traditions from your family of origin. As a child, I was under the impression that every American family began Thanksgiving Day by gathering around the television, watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade in its entirety, and eating sausage balls and orange rolls. Only after I got married did my husband disabuse me of this notion, and in fact gently inform me that it was a little wierd. Fortunately my kids, who adore both television and simple starches covered in sugar, sided with me, so the tradition has continued in our household.
The orange roll portion of the tradition began with my grandmother Betty, who made them from scratch. After she passed away a few years back, both my mother and I sheepishly admitted that while OUR orange rolls didn't taste like Grandma's, Sister Schubert orange rolls in the tinfoil pans tasted almost as good as the original article. I suppose this makes sense since Sister Schubert looks more like my grandma than either my mother or I do. For the past several years, however, the rest of America appears to be losing interest in the orange roll industry. I know this because each year it takes me more stops at more grocery stores to bag my Thanksgiving supply.
This year I decided to involve Google in the search process, with disastrous results. In the interest of admitting when we have gone a little crazy, I share the following email that my mother and sisters received today:
"Hello all. Thought you would like to know that I have reached a new Thanksgiving low...I just got off the phone with the Sister Schubert corporate office, where I paid overnight shipping to have orange rolls delivered to my house in time for the Macy's parade. Thanks to their handy online search function I know that no grocery store in Durham or Chapel Hill is carrying them, and my life is too crazy to drive to Raleigh just for orange rolls. I am too ashamed to tell you what it cost me.
Mom, I ordered extra to bring for Christmas just in case you have the same problem, as the Sister Schubert Searcher tells me there are no stores in Huntsville stocking them either. Yes, I am hoarding orange rolls."
Love, Katie"
Hoping all your Thanksgiving dreams come true!
The orange roll portion of the tradition began with my grandmother Betty, who made them from scratch. After she passed away a few years back, both my mother and I sheepishly admitted that while OUR orange rolls didn't taste like Grandma's, Sister Schubert orange rolls in the tinfoil pans tasted almost as good as the original article. I suppose this makes sense since Sister Schubert looks more like my grandma than either my mother or I do. For the past several years, however, the rest of America appears to be losing interest in the orange roll industry. I know this because each year it takes me more stops at more grocery stores to bag my Thanksgiving supply.
This year I decided to involve Google in the search process, with disastrous results. In the interest of admitting when we have gone a little crazy, I share the following email that my mother and sisters received today:
"Hello all. Thought you would like to know that I have reached a new Thanksgiving low...I just got off the phone with the Sister Schubert corporate office, where I paid overnight shipping to have orange rolls delivered to my house in time for the Macy's parade. Thanks to their handy online search function I know that no grocery store in Durham or Chapel Hill is carrying them, and my life is too crazy to drive to Raleigh just for orange rolls. I am too ashamed to tell you what it cost me.
Mom, I ordered extra to bring for Christmas just in case you have the same problem, as the Sister Schubert Searcher tells me there are no stores in Huntsville stocking them either. Yes, I am hoarding orange rolls."
Love, Katie"
Hoping all your Thanksgiving dreams come true!
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Nine Months
Nine months old. Rolling, sitting, EIGHT teeth but still laughing, saying "dada" and "ah-dan" (we aren't sure what that last one means). Champion raspberry blower. Sweet sweet boy.
Friday, November 9, 2012
As usual, my attempts to talk all the children into coordinating Halloween costumes failed,
so we had a joyously mismatched Halloween. We trick-or-treat in our "adopted" neighborhood of Trinity Park, where the kids' school is located, and it's a treat just to stroll the streets and take in the decorations on Halloween night. Enjoy.
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Going Pro
This past weekend my five year old son became a professional soccer player. Professional, that is, to the extent that I am now paying him. And the question I have been pondering this week is: why do I care so much?
This need for motivation in sports is a new experience in our household. My eldest child was, startlingly, a natural athlete. Once we placed him on the field and explained the basic idea that you get points for taking the ball from others and putting it in the goal, he was off. As I watch him out there, his small body bending and twisting with agility and grace, I am sure of one thing: I am making no genetic contribution to this phenomenon. I'm no couch potato, but my sports of choice -- swimming, running, hiking -- have in common that the main requirement is a determination to move from point A to point B, and eye hand coordination is secondary. (It is fairly difficult to fall off a hiking trail, although the consequences may be dire.) I watch him with joy, but there's also a lingering wonderment as to where he got it from.
With Samuel, soccer is a different game. In soccer as in all things, this kid rows his own boat. Lest you get the impression that my husband and I are soccer-pushing super parents, I assure you that we are not. He was eager to join the team, loves putting on the uniform, gets excited when there is a game. Once the game commences, however, he trots sedately up and down the field. He's careful to stay close enough to the pack to be included, but not so close as to compete with the team stars for an opportunity to actually touch the ball. He is neither naturally graceful nor particularly clutzy. He's just relaxed. Sometimes he quits watching the game altogether because he has a (non-soccer-related) thought that he wants to communicate to the sidelines using uninterpretable sign language. Post-game analysis is usually focused on the quality of the week's snack, regarding which his criticism is sharp and relentless.
Samuel seems quite content with this approach to the game. His father and I are a different story. It's a hard sell to bundle four kids into the car and cart all their equipment down to a damp grassy patch so that you can sit for an hour and watch your child amble casually somewhere near a game in which he does not actually appear to be participating. My husband must occasionally be banished so that he will not embarrass himself (OK, me) by shouting instructions from the sidelines --which incidentally, if you were thinking of trying it in a similar situation, does no good whatsoever.
Maybe my kid just has a happy-go-lucky disposition. But I wonder if there's something not so sunny at work. This kiddo is nothing if not a pragmatist, and I suspect that he has summed up the situation as follows: I am not the best, and if I run around after the ball, it's going to be hard and I'm probably not going to score. So I'll hang out in the back here where I can be part of the team, but not try too hard. (And as a bonus, I'll get a snack.)
This is not a pattern for life that I want to encourage. So this past weekend, in a stroke of genius or desperation, I had a parking lot heart to heart with my son. I reminded him that Mom and Dad didn't really care if he was the best, OK, or not very good at soccer. We just cared that he tried his hardest. I asked him to be more...stubborn.
We talked about how stubborn is bad sometimes, like when Mom wants you to eat a vegetable or when you won't compromise with your brother, but it's also good sometimes, like when you can't do something very well yet but you keep trying and don't give up. And to help this stubborness along, I offered an incentive: every time his foot touched the ball, he would get a penny. A light was kindled in his little eyes.
"So if I get enough pennies will I get some of the grey money? If I get five pennies I can get one of those big grey monies and if I get ten pennies I can get one of the other grey moneys?"
I assured him that I would make change for nickels and dimes. And we shook on it.
And here's the thing: it worked. For the first part of the game he did his usual thing, but at some point he got in a kick. He looked up at me, grinned, and held up one finger. And he was off again.
Was he transformed into a fierce, talented soccer playing machine? Uh, no. He was not what anyone would term a scoring threat. But he kicked the ball thirteen times, and each time he looked toward the sideline with his excited smile, and held up his fingers to show me his tally. I wasn't quite sure why, but my inner parenting gut told me we had done something good here. I am out one small grey money and three cents, which seems like a bargain.
Over the days I've puzzled on what happened here, and whether it was good. Here is the conclusion I've reached: I think it's good, because Samuel and I together figured out how to transform a game where he felt like he couldn't compete, into a game where he could compete against himself. And in the process he discovered that more effort got more results.
I really, truly don't care (at least I think I don't) whether my son is good at soccer. But I know there will be many more times in his life when he tries at something and does a big belly flop. And I hope that with my pennies I can help him learn that if he digs in his heels and keeps trying, he may still not be the best, but he will get better,and he will be doing HIS best, which feels pretty good.
If he demonstrates anything like his natural tenacity for avoiding vegetables...we may see him in the World Cup yet.
This need for motivation in sports is a new experience in our household. My eldest child was, startlingly, a natural athlete. Once we placed him on the field and explained the basic idea that you get points for taking the ball from others and putting it in the goal, he was off. As I watch him out there, his small body bending and twisting with agility and grace, I am sure of one thing: I am making no genetic contribution to this phenomenon. I'm no couch potato, but my sports of choice -- swimming, running, hiking -- have in common that the main requirement is a determination to move from point A to point B, and eye hand coordination is secondary. (It is fairly difficult to fall off a hiking trail, although the consequences may be dire.) I watch him with joy, but there's also a lingering wonderment as to where he got it from.
With Samuel, soccer is a different game. In soccer as in all things, this kid rows his own boat. Lest you get the impression that my husband and I are soccer-pushing super parents, I assure you that we are not. He was eager to join the team, loves putting on the uniform, gets excited when there is a game. Once the game commences, however, he trots sedately up and down the field. He's careful to stay close enough to the pack to be included, but not so close as to compete with the team stars for an opportunity to actually touch the ball. He is neither naturally graceful nor particularly clutzy. He's just relaxed. Sometimes he quits watching the game altogether because he has a (non-soccer-related) thought that he wants to communicate to the sidelines using uninterpretable sign language. Post-game analysis is usually focused on the quality of the week's snack, regarding which his criticism is sharp and relentless.
Samuel seems quite content with this approach to the game. His father and I are a different story. It's a hard sell to bundle four kids into the car and cart all their equipment down to a damp grassy patch so that you can sit for an hour and watch your child amble casually somewhere near a game in which he does not actually appear to be participating. My husband must occasionally be banished so that he will not embarrass himself (OK, me) by shouting instructions from the sidelines --which incidentally, if you were thinking of trying it in a similar situation, does no good whatsoever.
Maybe my kid just has a happy-go-lucky disposition. But I wonder if there's something not so sunny at work. This kiddo is nothing if not a pragmatist, and I suspect that he has summed up the situation as follows: I am not the best, and if I run around after the ball, it's going to be hard and I'm probably not going to score. So I'll hang out in the back here where I can be part of the team, but not try too hard. (And as a bonus, I'll get a snack.)
This is not a pattern for life that I want to encourage. So this past weekend, in a stroke of genius or desperation, I had a parking lot heart to heart with my son. I reminded him that Mom and Dad didn't really care if he was the best, OK, or not very good at soccer. We just cared that he tried his hardest. I asked him to be more...stubborn.
We talked about how stubborn is bad sometimes, like when Mom wants you to eat a vegetable or when you won't compromise with your brother, but it's also good sometimes, like when you can't do something very well yet but you keep trying and don't give up. And to help this stubborness along, I offered an incentive: every time his foot touched the ball, he would get a penny. A light was kindled in his little eyes.
"So if I get enough pennies will I get some of the grey money? If I get five pennies I can get one of those big grey monies and if I get ten pennies I can get one of the other grey moneys?"
I assured him that I would make change for nickels and dimes. And we shook on it.
And here's the thing: it worked. For the first part of the game he did his usual thing, but at some point he got in a kick. He looked up at me, grinned, and held up one finger. And he was off again.
Was he transformed into a fierce, talented soccer playing machine? Uh, no. He was not what anyone would term a scoring threat. But he kicked the ball thirteen times, and each time he looked toward the sideline with his excited smile, and held up his fingers to show me his tally. I wasn't quite sure why, but my inner parenting gut told me we had done something good here. I am out one small grey money and three cents, which seems like a bargain.
Over the days I've puzzled on what happened here, and whether it was good. Here is the conclusion I've reached: I think it's good, because Samuel and I together figured out how to transform a game where he felt like he couldn't compete, into a game where he could compete against himself. And in the process he discovered that more effort got more results.
I really, truly don't care (at least I think I don't) whether my son is good at soccer. But I know there will be many more times in his life when he tries at something and does a big belly flop. And I hope that with my pennies I can help him learn that if he digs in his heels and keeps trying, he may still not be the best, but he will get better,and he will be doing HIS best, which feels pretty good.
If he demonstrates anything like his natural tenacity for avoiding vegetables...we may see him in the World Cup yet.
Monday, October 8, 2012
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
Mrs Watson
Like a lot five year old boys (and, I would suggest, all of the best ones), Samuel just loves his kindergarten teacher. This week his conversation has included some particularly great Mrs. Watson stories. Today's edition:
"Mommy, Mrs Watson says that if we feel just a little sick we are not supposed to come to school".
"Really?"
"Yes she does, because today Luke felt just a little sick and he came to school anyway and then he threw up on the rug".
Point taken, Mrs Watson.
Mrs. Watson's job has some brighter spots. Tonight Samuel composed a letter and sealed it up in an envelope to take to school tomorrow:
"Dear Mrs Watson, I am going to be a scaree dragon for Halloween. I have a poerful tial and poerful wings. Roooooooor. Scare you right out of your pants. Love Samuel"
"Mommy, Mrs Watson says that if we feel just a little sick we are not supposed to come to school".
"Really?"
"Yes she does, because today Luke felt just a little sick and he came to school anyway and then he threw up on the rug".
Point taken, Mrs Watson.
Mrs. Watson's job has some brighter spots. Tonight Samuel composed a letter and sealed it up in an envelope to take to school tomorrow:
"Dear Mrs Watson, I am going to be a scaree dragon for Halloween. I have a poerful tial and poerful wings. Roooooooor. Scare you right out of your pants. Love Samuel"
Thursday, September 6, 2012
Little Boys and Fairies
My friends' little girls are into Fairies. Not just the traditional Tinkerbell from our 20th century childhoods, but a whole host of new and improved fairies with their own books, TV series and action figures. Apparently, there are delicate girly fairies, but also tough modern role model fairies who fight evil, defend the forest and generally make themselves useful.
You might think that all this fairy talk would make a mom of four boys feel left out. However, I am here to tell you that we have fairies at our house, too. Here are a few of the ones my kids have made me aware of just lately:
The Pee Fairy: She comes along after you have peed and run out of the bathroom (presumably with unwashed hands) to flush the toilet. Sometimes, I am sad to say, she has to call in her associate, the Poop Elf, to get rid of even more incriminating evidence.
The Laundry Fairy: This busy creature can be found all over the house -- in the bedroom, bathroom, next to the front door and in many other nooks and crannies -- picking up socks and underwear and flying them safely into the hamper.
The Dish Fairy: our boys really believe in this one, because they confidently leave their dishes on the table every single night so that she will have the chance to vanish them into the dishwasher. No matter how many times they're called back to the supper table because "The Dish Fairy Does Not Live Here!", they still believe.
Our home really is a magical place!
You might think that all this fairy talk would make a mom of four boys feel left out. However, I am here to tell you that we have fairies at our house, too. Here are a few of the ones my kids have made me aware of just lately:
The Pee Fairy: She comes along after you have peed and run out of the bathroom (presumably with unwashed hands) to flush the toilet. Sometimes, I am sad to say, she has to call in her associate, the Poop Elf, to get rid of even more incriminating evidence.
The Laundry Fairy: This busy creature can be found all over the house -- in the bedroom, bathroom, next to the front door and in many other nooks and crannies -- picking up socks and underwear and flying them safely into the hamper.
The Dish Fairy: our boys really believe in this one, because they confidently leave their dishes on the table every single night so that she will have the chance to vanish them into the dishwasher. No matter how many times they're called back to the supper table because "The Dish Fairy Does Not Live Here!", they still believe.
Our home really is a magical place!
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Let There Be Light
I walked into the bathroom this morning, flipped the switch and the light came on. I realize that for most people this is not an unusual experience. But our bathroom light is special. In the words of a friend (describing the windshield wiper on his 1980 pickup truck, which coincidentally had a similar sort of problem) "it's not broken, it just works in a different way". A few years ago, the light went out. Experiments with a new bulb and jiggling various wires failed to make it come back on. We assumed a problem with the wiring. Fortunately vanity lights and the good old sun keep the room reasonably well lit, and "fix wierd bathroom light" soon fell to the bottom of a very long to-do list.
The habit of flipping the switch persisted, and a few months later the light came back on. Over the years this has become a pattern. The light is off and then, one day, it comes on. Once it resumes functioning, we have light in the shower for days or weeks, then one day it disappears again. And because I don't really expect it to work, it has become a pleasant little suprise, an omen of a good day. Oh look, the light is back on, I say to myself as I get into the shower. And I am cheered by the unaccustomed brightness until it goes away again.
I have tried to connect the light's moods to various factors -- the temperature, whether we've been walking around in the attic -- but have never found a predictable pattern. And my response to this intermittent electrical mystery has gotten me thinking about seasons.
We have seasons, of course. Times when the weather is different and we need some rearrangements in our wardrobes to move in comfort from our climate-controlled homes to our climate-controlled cars to our climate-controlled offices. But modern life has pretty much been engineered to obliterate seasonality. We can buy pineapples and mangos at the supermarket all year long. If the bed is chilly in mid-winter we don't have to light a fire or add another quilt, we simply punch "up" on the thermostat. Sweat is an embarrassment to be avoided. Drafts are just indications that it's time to buy new storm windows. We feel entitled to all of life's comforts, delivered in thirty minutes or less, all the time.
But the truth is that life's biggest joys are for the most part seasonal. The tomatos I buy next month at the supermarket just won't taste like the ones I got at the farmer's market in the heat of July. Next week those beautiful fall leaves on the drive home will have disappeared. Christmas comes but once a year. Family traditions change. Friends move away. Our children will not be babies forever, our bodies will not be young and pretty-much-healthy forever, our parents and grandparents will not be around to share our lives forever.
We all resist change. When we find something good, we want to hold on. But I am learning that life has seasons, and that pineapple in January and a life in which "good things" are frozen and preserved so that no new good things can fit into my tightly controlled universe, may blunt the joy of encountering the new and the unexpected, the uncontrollable blessing. And I wonder, as I shower in a warm glow, whether God might be using my bathroom light as a reminder to bask in the season, while it lasts.
The habit of flipping the switch persisted, and a few months later the light came back on. Over the years this has become a pattern. The light is off and then, one day, it comes on. Once it resumes functioning, we have light in the shower for days or weeks, then one day it disappears again. And because I don't really expect it to work, it has become a pleasant little suprise, an omen of a good day. Oh look, the light is back on, I say to myself as I get into the shower. And I am cheered by the unaccustomed brightness until it goes away again.
I have tried to connect the light's moods to various factors -- the temperature, whether we've been walking around in the attic -- but have never found a predictable pattern. And my response to this intermittent electrical mystery has gotten me thinking about seasons.
We have seasons, of course. Times when the weather is different and we need some rearrangements in our wardrobes to move in comfort from our climate-controlled homes to our climate-controlled cars to our climate-controlled offices. But modern life has pretty much been engineered to obliterate seasonality. We can buy pineapples and mangos at the supermarket all year long. If the bed is chilly in mid-winter we don't have to light a fire or add another quilt, we simply punch "up" on the thermostat. Sweat is an embarrassment to be avoided. Drafts are just indications that it's time to buy new storm windows. We feel entitled to all of life's comforts, delivered in thirty minutes or less, all the time.
But the truth is that life's biggest joys are for the most part seasonal. The tomatos I buy next month at the supermarket just won't taste like the ones I got at the farmer's market in the heat of July. Next week those beautiful fall leaves on the drive home will have disappeared. Christmas comes but once a year. Family traditions change. Friends move away. Our children will not be babies forever, our bodies will not be young and pretty-much-healthy forever, our parents and grandparents will not be around to share our lives forever.
We all resist change. When we find something good, we want to hold on. But I am learning that life has seasons, and that pineapple in January and a life in which "good things" are frozen and preserved so that no new good things can fit into my tightly controlled universe, may blunt the joy of encountering the new and the unexpected, the uncontrollable blessing. And I wonder, as I shower in a warm glow, whether God might be using my bathroom light as a reminder to bask in the season, while it lasts.
Thursday, August 23, 2012
To The Mountains! Said Fred
That's a line that only those who have read "Big Dog, Little Dog" far too many times can really appreciate, but we did look a bit like Ted and Fred as we piled into the car for our recent trip to the mountains of southern Virginia. Wonderful friends, lots of time to relax together, and a rare chance to get out on the trail with all four boys -- what could be better!
Enjoy some photos of our mountain weekend:
Virginia Highlands Photos
Enjoy some photos of our mountain weekend:
Virginia Highlands Photos
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Go Heels: Tater Tot's Birth Story
Background: I've been slow to post P's birth story, in honor of his turning six months old today, here it is.
I have never made it to 40 weeks gestation, and labor with my third child was three hours and eight minutes long. So when the Tater Tot came along, I didn't think patience would be a big part of the equation. In fact I figured my biggest problem would be not delivering on the side of the road. Maybe we should have a plastic sheet and some towels around just in case, I said. Forget that, we're headed for the hospital as soon as we're sure it's on, my husband said. I hope we have time to take pictures, I said.
Fast forward to 38 weeks. My shortest pregnancy lasted 38 weeks, 3 days. My longest was 39 weeks, 2 days. So with family members coming in to town at 38 weeks and staying through 40, we figured we should have it covered.
Thirty eight and six. Mark and I planned a last date night while my sister heroically babysat all three nephews. During dinner, contractions began. Four minutes apart. One minute long. Thai food does it every time, he said. Maybe we should skip the movie, I said. We strolled outside the restaurant. I think this is really it, I said. We stopped for dessert. Contractions spaced out, then stopped. Should have gone to the movie, we said.
Thirty nine and three. My regular midwife appointment. The Tater Tot now holds the family record for gestating time. I've always been a cervix agnostic. I think it's better not to know what's going on down there til it becomes obvious. But with four days of child care coverage left I'm getting a bit jumpy. Would you like me to check? she says. I cave. You're dilated to about 2, she says. Would you like me to strip your membranes? I cave again.
4:30 pm. I wake up from a lovely nap, walk into the bathroom and get a whopper sink-clutching contraction. Hmmm, could be something. Or not. I am no longer confident in my predictive abilities.
5:30 pm. We have run out of "I'm sure I'll still be pregnant by then" groceries, so we all go out for pizza. Steady contractions five or six minutes apart do not deter me from eating a few slices. You never know when you're going to need that carbohydrate load.
7:00 pm. Contractions continue to come, and it's now time for a serious strategy session. At 9pm the Duke/Carolina game, perhaps the biggest rivalry in college basketball, tips off in the stadium next door to our hospital. For weeks I have been sternly instructing this baby that the one time it CANNOT be born is during the Duke/Carolina game. Ah, labor irony. I think it's going pretty slow, I say. I think I can make it til halftime. Earlier we asked the midwife how we should get to the hospital during game night traffic and she said, "Call an ambulance". No kidding. I put the other kiddos to bed. It's nice to know they're all settled.
10:00 pm. The golden hour--halftime. We jump in the car, our timing determined not by how far apart the contractions are, but how long til the final buzzer. It's eerily silent as we approach the campus. Every living, breathing thing in Chapel Hill is either at the Dean Dome or at home in front of the television.
10:30 pm. Meg, one of my favorite midwives, is on call and I'm dilated to 5. It's really quiet around here tonight, the nurse says. (Apparently even babies in utero don't want to be disturbed during the big game.) Do you want me to get the tub ready? My previous trips to this hospital have all involved brief but lively stops in triage and pushing out a baby the instant I get into a real room. What do you know, they have tubs.
11:00 pm. We all keep a vague eye on the game on TV. I sit on the birth ball, get a back massage, and drink some Gatorade. If those guys need it, I definitely do. They only have to play for sixty minutes.
12:00 am. I live in the tub for about an hour and it is indeed all it's cracked up to be. My oh-so-nice nurse Jennydoes does heart rate checks with a little waterproof thingie. Meg hangs out by the tub and chats between contractions from time to time. The game is over. Carolina lost. We hope it's not an omen.
12:50 am. Contractions kick up a notch, so I get out. The tubs aren't set up to allow a water birth, and I really don't want to crawl out dripping wet and cold during transition. Some of the Gatorade and pizza make a reappearance. Based on prior experience I'm confident that vomiting usually marks the final leg of this journey. We'll be all done in an hour.
2:30 am. Really? Weren't we supposed to have a baby already? I have a nice rhythm going marching up and down the black and white squares on the floor, three or four lengths of the room for each contraction. I know I can do this, I'm just starting to wonder how long I can do it. Every contraction I think surely my water will break and just wash the baby out, but no such luck. I'm starting to feel a little pushy, but wonder if it's wishful thinking because I am so ready to move on to the pushing stage. We finally decide to check progress. 9 cm. We debate whether we should break the water to move things along a bit. I've always liked to wait for the old natural "pop" but...I am not enthralled by the idea of delivering an 8 pound baby in an intact bag of waters.
Meg breaks my water and everyone is very impressed by the volume of amniotic fluid. Nice to know all that weight and girth wasn't just excess fat! Tater Tot immediately moves down and I'm at 9.5 cm with just a lip left. Meg helps move it over baby's head. I have heard horror stories about this lip-pushing business, but it doesn't seem so bad.
The pushing stage takes more work than with babies #2 and #3. I think the Tater Tot just started off higher, so had more distance to travel. I feel like I'm not making a lot of progress, but then my cheerleaders (Mark, Jenny and Meg made a great team covering the upper, mid and lower zones respectively) start to report sightings of a hairy little head. I'm very very happy to be pushing instead of pacing.
3:58 am. Tater Tot makes his way into the world in a slow and (relatively) dignified manner with Meg's gentle assistance. Midwives rock! His gender was a "suprise", but I think after three boys we were sort of expecting another. We love boys! I say. Throughout the pregnancy I wondered if I had a secret, unconscious desire for a girl, but at this moment I know that I'm really excited to be a family of four boys.
He comes to me immediately for a skin-to-skin snuggle and feed, all warm and damp and fresh baby smelling. We cut the cord pretty quickly because we want to donate cord blood.
We nurse and the placenta is delivered without much fanfare. Tater Tot has a weigh in: 21 1/4 inches, 8lbs 1 oz. Almost the same measurements as his oldest big brother
Daddy takes a well-earned post game nap on the foldout sofa while P and I snuggle and have our respective snacks. We talk about our plans for the day: warm showers and baths, meeting all the big brothers and Grandma, a big plate of eggs and bacon from the hospital cafeteria. I am so excited to get to know this new little person. He has arrived in a big, loving family where he will never be lonely. But I'm glad we got to be alone to watch the sun come up that first day, just Mommy and Tater Tot.
Epilogue: I will insert a promo here for my star team of hospital-based midwives at UNC Hospitals. We had a wonderful, warm birth experience in which we felt completely supported in our desire for a natural childbirth and cared for as a family, with a team who was prepared and experienced for low-intervention birth. I wish more women across the country had access to this brand of great care.
I have never made it to 40 weeks gestation, and labor with my third child was three hours and eight minutes long. So when the Tater Tot came along, I didn't think patience would be a big part of the equation. In fact I figured my biggest problem would be not delivering on the side of the road. Maybe we should have a plastic sheet and some towels around just in case, I said. Forget that, we're headed for the hospital as soon as we're sure it's on, my husband said. I hope we have time to take pictures, I said.
Fast forward to 38 weeks. My shortest pregnancy lasted 38 weeks, 3 days. My longest was 39 weeks, 2 days. So with family members coming in to town at 38 weeks and staying through 40, we figured we should have it covered.
Thirty eight and six. Mark and I planned a last date night while my sister heroically babysat all three nephews. During dinner, contractions began. Four minutes apart. One minute long. Thai food does it every time, he said. Maybe we should skip the movie, I said. We strolled outside the restaurant. I think this is really it, I said. We stopped for dessert. Contractions spaced out, then stopped. Should have gone to the movie, we said.
Thirty nine and three. My regular midwife appointment. The Tater Tot now holds the family record for gestating time. I've always been a cervix agnostic. I think it's better not to know what's going on down there til it becomes obvious. But with four days of child care coverage left I'm getting a bit jumpy. Would you like me to check? she says. I cave. You're dilated to about 2, she says. Would you like me to strip your membranes? I cave again.
4:30 pm. I wake up from a lovely nap, walk into the bathroom and get a whopper sink-clutching contraction. Hmmm, could be something. Or not. I am no longer confident in my predictive abilities.
5:30 pm. We have run out of "I'm sure I'll still be pregnant by then" groceries, so we all go out for pizza. Steady contractions five or six minutes apart do not deter me from eating a few slices. You never know when you're going to need that carbohydrate load.
7:00 pm. Contractions continue to come, and it's now time for a serious strategy session. At 9pm the Duke/Carolina game, perhaps the biggest rivalry in college basketball, tips off in the stadium next door to our hospital. For weeks I have been sternly instructing this baby that the one time it CANNOT be born is during the Duke/Carolina game. Ah, labor irony. I think it's going pretty slow, I say. I think I can make it til halftime. Earlier we asked the midwife how we should get to the hospital during game night traffic and she said, "Call an ambulance". No kidding. I put the other kiddos to bed. It's nice to know they're all settled.
10:00 pm. The golden hour--halftime. We jump in the car, our timing determined not by how far apart the contractions are, but how long til the final buzzer. It's eerily silent as we approach the campus. Every living, breathing thing in Chapel Hill is either at the Dean Dome or at home in front of the television.
10:30 pm. Meg, one of my favorite midwives, is on call and I'm dilated to 5. It's really quiet around here tonight, the nurse says. (Apparently even babies in utero don't want to be disturbed during the big game.) Do you want me to get the tub ready? My previous trips to this hospital have all involved brief but lively stops in triage and pushing out a baby the instant I get into a real room. What do you know, they have tubs.
11:00 pm. We all keep a vague eye on the game on TV. I sit on the birth ball, get a back massage, and drink some Gatorade. If those guys need it, I definitely do. They only have to play for sixty minutes.
12:00 am. I live in the tub for about an hour and it is indeed all it's cracked up to be. My oh-so-nice nurse Jennydoes does heart rate checks with a little waterproof thingie. Meg hangs out by the tub and chats between contractions from time to time. The game is over. Carolina lost. We hope it's not an omen.
12:50 am. Contractions kick up a notch, so I get out. The tubs aren't set up to allow a water birth, and I really don't want to crawl out dripping wet and cold during transition. Some of the Gatorade and pizza make a reappearance. Based on prior experience I'm confident that vomiting usually marks the final leg of this journey. We'll be all done in an hour.
2:30 am. Really? Weren't we supposed to have a baby already? I have a nice rhythm going marching up and down the black and white squares on the floor, three or four lengths of the room for each contraction. I know I can do this, I'm just starting to wonder how long I can do it. Every contraction I think surely my water will break and just wash the baby out, but no such luck. I'm starting to feel a little pushy, but wonder if it's wishful thinking because I am so ready to move on to the pushing stage. We finally decide to check progress. 9 cm. We debate whether we should break the water to move things along a bit. I've always liked to wait for the old natural "pop" but...I am not enthralled by the idea of delivering an 8 pound baby in an intact bag of waters.
Meg breaks my water and everyone is very impressed by the volume of amniotic fluid. Nice to know all that weight and girth wasn't just excess fat! Tater Tot immediately moves down and I'm at 9.5 cm with just a lip left. Meg helps move it over baby's head. I have heard horror stories about this lip-pushing business, but it doesn't seem so bad.
The pushing stage takes more work than with babies #2 and #3. I think the Tater Tot just started off higher, so had more distance to travel. I feel like I'm not making a lot of progress, but then my cheerleaders (Mark, Jenny and Meg made a great team covering the upper, mid and lower zones respectively) start to report sightings of a hairy little head. I'm very very happy to be pushing instead of pacing.
3:58 am. Tater Tot makes his way into the world in a slow and (relatively) dignified manner with Meg's gentle assistance. Midwives rock! His gender was a "suprise", but I think after three boys we were sort of expecting another. We love boys! I say. Throughout the pregnancy I wondered if I had a secret, unconscious desire for a girl, but at this moment I know that I'm really excited to be a family of four boys.
He comes to me immediately for a skin-to-skin snuggle and feed, all warm and damp and fresh baby smelling. We cut the cord pretty quickly because we want to donate cord blood.
We nurse and the placenta is delivered without much fanfare. Tater Tot has a weigh in: 21 1/4 inches, 8lbs 1 oz. Almost the same measurements as his oldest big brother
Daddy takes a well-earned post game nap on the foldout sofa while P and I snuggle and have our respective snacks. We talk about our plans for the day: warm showers and baths, meeting all the big brothers and Grandma, a big plate of eggs and bacon from the hospital cafeteria. I am so excited to get to know this new little person. He has arrived in a big, loving family where he will never be lonely. But I'm glad we got to be alone to watch the sun come up that first day, just Mommy and Tater Tot.
Epilogue: I will insert a promo here for my star team of hospital-based midwives at UNC Hospitals. We had a wonderful, warm birth experience in which we felt completely supported in our desire for a natural childbirth and cared for as a family, with a team who was prepared and experienced for low-intervention birth. I wish more women across the country had access to this brand of great care.
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